quiescent
by sunspots and raindrops
Summary: Some things are beautiful because they end; that's what she tells herself on solitary nights when the wind blows past her, frigid and unfeeling. — [Zutara drabble; contains mature content]
**A/N** : Just a reminder, this is rated M for a _reason_.

* * *

It's a strange thing, the way he has always seemed to smolder – his fingertips are like matches, igniting with every accidental touch, the faintest friction and insinuation of danger; his eyes are like sunstones, hue shifting when they glitter darkly with improper promise. Promise of what impropriety, exactly, Katara has never dared contemplate in the light of day. There are too many… _innocents_ , too many opportunities to be seen by others as she sees, _sees him_.

But contemplate she does, on nights when the moon waxes to tug at her heartstrings and lull her into honesty, when half-remembered dreams have left her to wake writhing, with covers tangled frustratingly around her – lips parted and chest heaving with imaginary exertion. The night air is blissfully cool when she kicks off her blanket, but it isn't enough to provide true relief, and it prompts her to roll over in frustration.

When she does, the deep blue of her eyes clashes with gold, and she wonders for a moment if she is, perhaps, still asleep. But the amber orbs locked with hers are not the deliciously predatory ones from her dream – they are simply curious, intrigued, observing her unabashedly. A flush rises into her face as she realizes that, more than likely, he has been watching her for some time.

Still, he does not look away, gaze intense in the darkness, and her breath seems to catch in her throat as she watches the slope of his brow dip and his lips shape her name soundlessly. Before he can mouth the last syllable, Katara finds herself flipping back over to face away from him.

Even worse than someone else noticing her _notice_ Zuko… was _Zuko_ noticing her notice him.

* * *

There are countless other times she catches those glowing golden eyes on her in the days that follow – and they _burn_ , turn her thoughts into so much tinder, until finally, one day, she no longer turns away, no longer tries to hide – because he is a human firestorm and every wall between them will inevitably be burnt to ash.

They had stopped at an abandoned temple for the night, and while the privacy and shelter had been nice after days of camping out on the road, it becomes stifling in the dark and Katara has to get _out_. So she leaves the oppressive walls of the structure, finding serenity in her element – moon high, feet planted firmly in the pebbles of a streambed, cerulean eddies lapping at her calves. She is waterbending for the sheer pleasure of it – easily, lazily, enjoying the calming effect of the atmosphere, until she feels an unmistakable presence. _Zuko-zuko-zuko_ her quick breaths seem to say as they puff from between her lips. So she turns, slowly, lets the suspended water flow back into the stream, and locks eyes with him.

There are no other senses that spark her nerves, she can only _feel_ – the thundering of her heartbeat, the weight of his stare, pulling her toward him; it is undeniable, the strong, persistent draw of a tide. She does not move, letting mute desire rise in her eyes; she wants the heat to encompass her until nothing else matters, and she _wants_ him to _notice_. Her eyes hold a primal challenge – _see my desire, meet it with yours_ – and dare him to act on it.

And act he does, for suddenly, there are long strides _(one, two)_ , quick splashes ( _three, four)_ and bare toes are in the grass along the riverbank, brown fingers gripping dark robes, pale palms curved around her waist. Their movements had been abrupt, but now they slow, suspended, and the fire grows gradually, a deliciously slow burn meant to be savored.

Katara's right hand rises to Zuko's face, the pads of her fingers just barely grazing the surface of his scar, brushing aside strands of his ebony hair. She does not say his name, does not say anything – her pulse sings with sensations of him, zinging through her bloodstream as he closes his eyes and leans into her touch.

He opens his mouth, but she silences him with a finger pressed into the plush surface of his lips. When his eyes open to slits, single brow tilted in confusion, she only shakes her head. Words are not what she wants, not what she needs – speech would be superfluous. There is too much danger in speaking, for she knows just a whisper could remind them of things better off forgotten – if either of them wonder, _But what about_ … _Aang... Mai_ … Katara knows it would be over before it even begins. And while she has no illusions of _love_ or permanence, she will not think about the inevitability of their parting, will not think about their eventual destinies with others.

Willing him to understand, she moves her body into his, finger dragging down his lips to trace the line of his jaw. Golden eyes shift into a deep umber, pupils dilating as he let his hands slide along the curve of her waist until they reach her ribcage, one hand going flat against her back as he presses her closer.

Finally, _finally_ , their lips meet, and it is so much more than just the inferno she expects. He tastes like spices and scarlet and soot-blackened sunsets, and his kiss feels like the beginning, the end, _everything_. His eyes have always held that dark promise she's been drawn to, and he makes good on it as their mouths move together, his lips and tongue coaxing soft hums of pleasure from deep in her throat, and she can only think that she wants him _closer._

Blue robes pool at her feet as Katara shrugs them off, and she breaks their kiss to follow the motion, hands caressing their way into the v of his tunic, her lips following closely behind. Her searching fingers encourage him to let the maroon fabric fall, and her open-mouthed kisses stop at his navel when she is struck by something she never thought she would find in a man – _beauty_.

As she looks up at him, moonlight seems to shimmer on the pale surface of his skin – his torso is sculpted alabaster, sinewed muscles, only interrupted by the slightest shadow of hair that arrows into his pants, smooth slopes of hip-bones protruding just above where they are slung tantalizingly low. She watches his eyes widen and then shut as her curious fingers dance along the waistband, dipping inside to tease for a moment before returning to skim its edge.

Every inch of him seems to radiate heat, and she wants to map out the cartography of his scars, of his skin – an exploration of the way it stretches over muscle and bone, an expedition to discover every reaction she can elicit. It is her curiosity and the almost-foreign sensation of what she knows is undeniably lust that tempt her to nudge his pants lower and lower, watching his face as she does. And when they finally fall to join the clothing they've already shed, Katara reaches out to touch again, this time a tentative caress to the the evidence of his arousal. It is much more obvious with only his undergarments to obscure it, and she finds herself fascinated by his sharp inhalations and the way his face seems to twist in what she knows must be pleasure, but looks more to her like agony.

"Katara," he whispers hoarsely, "We should stop." But his words are a half-hearted protest, and she knows it. Words can lie, but bodies can't, and she both sees and feels his encouragement to continue as he hardens further with each stroke, his hips rocking gently into her touch.

Her own rough whisper floats up to him over the babbling sounds of the stream, "Stop talking, Zuko." And when she yanks down his underwear and takes him in her mouth, he does, only a broken groan passing from his lips.

It's interesting, Katara decides, the feel of him hard and soft, like iron and silk at the same time, a salty tang on her tongue. This is not foreign to her – Jet had asked her to do this for him, and while this is not new, this is very _different_. Jet had fisted hands in her hair, and his grip had threatened to pull it out by the roots as he simply took his own pleasure from her with rough and urgent motions that left her feeling dry-throated and used. But Zuko lets her curiosity reign – while his fingers anchor themselves in her hair, he does not pull, does not force himself into her mouth. He seems to be content to let her do whatever she desires as she explores him with fingers and lips and tongue, and it is exhilarating.

She wraps one hand around him, encompassing where her mouth cannot reach, and she finally begins moving her head up and down; gentle suction and the caress of her tongue evoking desperate sounds from his throat, and when she lets her teeth graze him with the barest pressure, his fingers tighten and keep her from moving to taste him again.

Blue eyes flick up to his face questioningly – _did I do something wrong?_ she wonders. But when she sees the intensity of his expression she knows exactly what he means when he breathes, "Katara, I need you to stop."

Obliging, she rocks back to sit on her heels, waiting for him to decide what he wants to do. While she had overruled his earlier objection, Katara will not force him to be with her; no matter how clear it is that he wants to on a physical level, she does not want him to regret, does not want this to become a memory that would be tainted by any feelings that it had been a mistake.

He does not move for a moment, eyes sliding shut as he seems to be trying to collect himself. But when he leans down to tug his pants back up, she feels the sharp sting of what she knows is rejection. While she had given him the opportunity to choose, she hadn't truly believed that he would say no, and the pain is unexpected. Looking anywhere but him, she stands, gathering her discarded robe around herself again as if it would shield her from his refusal, make her invulnerable, invisible.

She sees in her peripheral vision as he stoops and collects his own tunic, and so she turns to go without a word. Katara knows herself – she cannot hide her emotions, and speaking would betray the bitterness she feels. _You're so stupid – don't you dare cry_ , she mutters angrily inside her head. _Don't, don't, don't, don't cry–_

But her thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable warmth of his body behind hers, hands closing around her upper arms to stop her flight. "Not here," is the phrase that caresses her ear, and she turns to find golden eyes filled with what seems very dangerously near to affection. He moves to one side, grasping her hand in his and tugging gently toward the temple, and she does not breathe a word, following mutely as his touch reignites the slow burn of desire in her veins.

* * *

They do not hurry – there is no need, and their pace is only purposeful, not rushed.

When they enter the temple, Zuko disappears for a moment to grab his bedroll and an extra blanket from his room, Katara filching two candles from the common area. They meet again in the hallway, and he leads her down it to an unused bedroom, far from where their companions are slumbering, unaware.

When they reach the doorway, he looks back at her for a moment, as if to confirm again that she was still there, that she was still sure. So she pushes past him into the room, setting the candles down and facing the wall until he crosses the threshold, door shutting with a soft thud behind him.

The bedding is laid out in the center of the room, and she inclines her head to watch as he sits on it, lighting the candles with a flick of his fingers. When she does not move toward him, he holds her gaze, outstretching his hand in a beckon that was all the encouragement she needed to join him.

"Katara," he breathes in a heated whisper as he slides her tunic from the dusky expanse of her shoulders. He kisses the skin as it's exposed, saying between caresses, "You are wearing far too many clothes."

The rush she feels at his gravelly voice and the feeling of his lips is unstoppable, and she drags his head up to level their faces. Their eyes meet for a moment before she closes the distance, her kiss hard and demanding, hungry with unmistakable need.

And Zuko is only too eager to comply as she pushes him down to the floor, the blanket going over their heads as they get lost in their own world, in each other.

After a while, time becomes a concept that does not exist inside her head anymore – she can only want-ache- _need_ , only _feel_. His skin, his hands, his mouth; the overwhelming sensation of their naked bodies pressed together. It is an odd thought that crosses her mind – for someone who grew up a prince, he is almost shockingly unselfish. She realizes this because he _gives_ , gives her things she has never known she wanted until his head is between her thighs and she is biting her lip hard enough to draw blood; he gives more than just simple pleasure, he gives her the heady cocktail of knowing she is desirable and sensual and _wanted_ as a woman.

Somewhere in the midst of her senseless musings, his body has moved back up hers, lips on her neck, kissing their way to the place where her heart seems to be ready to burst from her chest as his fingers replace his mouth. She brings her teeth to the juncture of shoulder and throat, biting hard and bucking her hips in the timeless, wordless language of _I want more_. He does not hesitate, complying until Katara cannot take more because she is falling and flying and burning burning _burning_ from the inside out.

When she comes down from her high, he is above her, caressing the side of her face gently as he aligns their bodies. There is one more moment of hesitation – eyes that glow umber with a final _are you sure_ – but Katara is frustrated and she wants him _now,_ she says, and suddenly, _she_ is the one to give and Zuko _takes_ and she swears she will lose her mind again.

The feeling of him around her, _inside_ her, is a drug, heavy in the air, like incense burning too strongly and making it impossible to breathe. But Katara welcomes the urge to drown in it, feel it fill up her lungs until she can only breathe in gasps of _him_ , all sensuous smoke and forbidden flickers of desire; his name a whispered hiss of pleasure from her lips.

There is a break in the rhythm that he has set as he slows and pulls away from her. Katara hums her disappointment before she finds herself maneuvered on top, filled once again. She splays tanned palms against the pale surface of his chest, steadying herself and meeting his eyes in question. His eyes are deliciously dangerous – like the ones from her dreams – when he sits up partially to move his hands to her breasts. Her head falls back with an _oh_ of approval, and he says roughly, "Katara."

Her eyes open again, meeting his and a stuttered heartbeat passes before he slides his fingers to grip her hips and says in a voice that is sinfully sultry, "I want to watch you ride me."

His words seem to amplify every one of her nerve endings, and she moves, slowly at first, until she finds herself wanting _more_ again, and this time, she has the power to take it, and that in itself is intoxicating.

As she inches closer to the edge, Katara does not realize she is moaning aloud until he sits up, covering her mouth with one hand. She quiets, and they move together, his hand sliding down to nestle between them. "Zuko, please," she manages as she moves her body mindlessly with his.

"Katara," he groans into her ear, and she thinks that her name has never sounded so perfect. He says in it a growl the next time, their pace frenzied as he presses them even closer. She tries not to memorize the way it feels, because she has always known her heart will die a quick, blazing death, but all she wants to take and be taken, even if it's the only time.

And when he sets off fireworks inside her head and makes her bite his shoulder to hold back an almost soundless scream, there is only _him_ in her head as her heart cracks and blackens, as her entire being is turned to cinders – because _**oh**_ how glorious to go out in flames.

* * *

 **A/N : **Could _not_ get steamy thoughts about these two out of my head, so there you have it. This is kind of an amalgam of three original poetry pieces I wrote a _long_ time ago. Originally parts of this were written in past tense, so let me know if you find any discrepancies that I missed.

And sorry no happy ending for these guys, that's just the way the cookie crumbled this time. Hope you enjoyed nonetheless :)


End file.
